


Melting Clocks

by UnlimitedLostWorks



Category: Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Series Pre-Movie, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22274875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnlimitedLostWorks/pseuds/UnlimitedLostWorks
Summary: It's almost funny-- she's forgotten how it felt to actually feel something when one of the others died.
Relationships: Akemi Homura/Sakura Kyouko
Comments: 2
Kudos: 68





	Melting Clocks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cryon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cryon/gifts).



Homura Akemi watches helplessly as Sayaka dies for the first (one hundred and thirty seventh) time, and suddenly she can't quite remember how she's meant to feel. As the gem finally shatters, it's pitch-black contents no longer spilling over into a wave of nightmarish colours and beautiful music but instead sadly dripping to the floor in a muted spatter, her body swaying for a moment before beginning to fade away, as if she’d never existed. No Witch, no Labyrinth, just another (the only) dead Sayaka.

At first, the only thought in her head is the same as it always is—where is Madoka, did she see it happen? The ones where she sees Sayaka die are always the worst, the ones where nothing she says or does gets through anymore and she can’t even hope to stop her from making the wish. But Madoka’s gone, is never coming back, and she’s—well, it would be wrong to say she isn’t here, wouldn’t it? Yes, in that moment, as the Law of Cycles reaches out to claim the girl who will surely become it’s most faithful champion, Homura stares at the point where a person called Sayaka Miki used to be, and wonders if she might catch a glimpse of her, even if only for a second. A stray feather, a gloved hand—anything to reassure her that she didn’t imagine the whole thing.

Nothing happens, of course. Her goddess is only here for Sayaka, to comfort her and lead her forward to the afterlife that she wished into existence. It would be selfish of her to take that from the fallen magical girl just for her own momentary comfort, wouldn’t it? No, it’s not her time, she thinks, even as some blasphemous, wretched little part of her mutters in the back of her mind that after everything she’s been through for the existence that had once been called Madoka Kaname, she surely deserves at least a glimpse of what she’s become.

The rest of her mostly just feels something like jealousy.

The moment passes, the hollow shell of the Gem that had once been Sayaka Miki (broken for the one hundred and thirty seventh time, and for the first and last time) clattering down against the cold stone to join it’s liquified contents. There is no Law of Cycles, no wraiths, and no Sayaka. It’s just the three of them, and the hole where she used to be. It’s almost funny—she's forgotten how it felt to actually feel something when one of the others died. So funny, and yet she’s forgotten how to laugh. Or breathe. Or to do anything but to fall at her knees, her breath escaping in sharp staccato beats. Her heart hurts for the first time in so long—there’s another reminder.

\---

Kyoko Sakura doesn’t know if she feels anything as she watches it happen. She watches as a thousand words go unsaid, as another girl she couldn’t protect dies. Can’t protect them from the world, can’t protect them from people, can’t protect them from themselves. She knows she’ll feel it as soon as it becomes real, the moment she realizes that Sayaka is really gone, but right now she can’t, because she knows how Mami will take this. When she doesn’t want to think about things, she lets her mind slip into questions of pure practicality. Sayaka is dead. Her parents know that she’s friends with Mami, at least. There will be questions. Trails need to be covered; cover created. A distraction, to be sure, but not a pointless one.

She turns to Homura, the girl who’s always so uncomfortably good at this kind of thing—she’d always joke about how she would come to the aloof girl when she needed a body hiding. And yet, when she looks, she doesn’t see the quiet transfer student with cold eyes, but a girl going through a breakdown. She doesn’t quite know what to think—as far as she knew, Homura had hated Sayaka, everything about their personalities causing the kind of friction would have most people at each other’s throats—and she’d certainly had to hold Sayaka back a few times. And yet here sits Homura Akemi, borderline cataconic at she stares at the remains of the blue-haired magical girl’s soul as it bleeds into the concrete.

Mami is just as she expected, tears in her eyes and a shake in her step—she wonders just how long it’s been since she’s seen someone die. Her parents? Has she managed to save every victim from the Wraiths since her contract? Kyoko wouldn’t be surprised. If anyone could manage it, it would be Mami, though she also knows how far she’d push herself to do it. That same blank stare as Akemi, but at least she’s still standing up. The situation with Homura is too unexpected, too complicated for her to deal with right here and right now, so she grabs the blonde girl who had been her mentor for so long hard by her shoulder, shaking her until the stare she’s beginning to hate is finally replaced with something like awareness. She’s not at her best (will she ever be after again after losing one of her juniors? Part of her doubts it), but she can at least respond, even if it’s all tinged with a with a quiver in her voice that assures her everything is not alright.

“K-Kyoko— Sayaka, she--” She manages to stutter out, even the honorifics she’s so insistent on using forgotten in the void that’s surely starting to eat at her. Kyoko will get to her next, because there’s no way in hell that this team is ever going to operate if Kyoko fucking Sakura is the most stable, rational member (only because she’s choosing to hold it all in until it bursts, but she pushes that thought down with the rest.)

“Mami, listen. _listen to me_. There’s going to be people looking for Sayaka soon, and they might figure out she was with you. You need to make sure you have a… what’s it called?”

It’s as much to make sure she’s listening as it is Kyoko legitimately not knowing the word, and it works. Mami takes a heavy, shuddering breath and tries her best to put on a brave face for her junior— even though she only has one now (and try not to think about the ~~third~~ second).

“An alibi. You’re… you’re right, Sakura-san. We can’t stay here. Is… is Akemi-san okay?”

Mami is looking past her, so she looks back at the figure, not moved an inch from where she fell.

“I… have no clue. I’ll take her back to her place. You gonna be alright?”

\--She asks, even though she knows that she isn’t, and of course her reliable senpai lies and nods, but dealing with her will have to come next. Mami is moving and talking, at least, and that’s more when she can say for the dark-haired girl still sat unmoving. She stalks over and grabs her hand, and the worst part is how limp it feels, how easily she can pull Homura to her feet, the girl who’s normally wrapped tighter than steel wire. Any other time, she’d be glad to see she managed to get some of the tension out of her system. Now, she just feels lifeless. Kyoko steals a glance at her Soul Gem, just in case, unwilling to watch her disappear into the ether too. The swirling purple is a little darker than she’d like, but she’s not getting worse—and surely Homura will keep some grief cubes somewhere at her place, right?

\---

…That is, assuming she can even find the damn place. Kyoko’s only been there a few times, and never at Homura’s invitation. Hell, she had to follow her the first time, because she was so damn cagey about everything, had to bang on the door for what felt like hours until it started to rain and the quiet transfer student finally took pity on her. Speaking of Homura, she’s still out of it, pulled along far too easily by her insistent grip, violet eyes wide and dilated—the eyes are the worst part of it, perhaps. It makes Kyoko uncomfortable, seeing anything like vulnerability in those eyes. Like this, she realizes just how much of Homura’s cold façade is in her eyes, in the steely expression and the utter lack of emotion. She looks like a completely different person like this, someone far too fragile to share the face of the Homura she knows.

-Hm. She has to get the door open, doesn’t she? Homura probably won’t be happy if she breaks it down, but she’s pretty sure she keeps her keys in that goddamn shield, and Kyoko has seen her pull enough bombs out of that thing to know that blindly reaching in and fumbling around is a bad idea. She’ll just to get in some other way—it’s a good thing she’s used to this kind of thing. She mutters an apology as she searches her pockets for the hairpin she’s kept in there for a good few years, as if she didn’t do the exact same thing the second time she visited her.

\---

The worst thing is how much she remembers. Three memories she needs to keep going, a million more she wishes she could forget. Dead Madokas piling up, and all the other dead girls didn’t seem to matter much. They always came back after all, didn’t they? If she fails again, the mermaid will be a girl again, the knight won’t burn herself out, the hostess won’t have died a meaningless death.

If she doesn’t fail, if the third (one hundred and thirty sixth) time really is the charm, then who cares? She has the only thing she ever wanted. It’s a monstrous thought, but the promise of the light at the end of it all is the only thing that stops her from turning in her hospital bed every time—

\--But, there’s no Madoka. Madoka is gone (always there), but the others are alive. Except, one of them isn’t anymore, is she? The first time and the one hundred and thirty seventh time, the death of Sayaka Miki is final. The clock called Homura Akemi has melted, will never turn again, and here she lies with nothing but the persistence of her memories to prove that any of it ever happened, the ribbon in her hair almost a noose around her neck. For a brief, blasphemous moment, she thinks about forgetting it all, letting go of Madoka and finding some momentary respite before she comes for her like she does for all magical girls. But she dismisses it, of course—it hurts to remember, but if she doesn’t, then did it ever happen? If she forgets, will the goddess she’s become even recognize her? No, it’s her cross to bear, no matter how much she wishes she could share the burden, even if only for a moment.

\--Oh? Is that a light she sees? It’s a different sort of light—not the bright, beatific glow of an angel all aglow in white and pink, but something harsher, more mortal. The flickering, desperate burn of a candle eating it’s way down the wick, melting away it’s own life just to blaze a little brighter. She’s drawn to the heat, the warmth, for the light she gave up so much for is still too distant. Surely it’s okay if she draws a little comfort from this momentary flame, if she won’t yet feel the rays of the light she craves? 

\---

As Kyoko paws at the wall for the light switch, she begins to remember why she doesn’t visit Homura’s place very much—the smell. It’s not an unclean smell—in fact, it’s the exact opposite. The air is tinged with the heavy chemical odor of too many detergents and cleaners, as if the owner didn’t quite know how to actually keep anything clean, so she just threw stronger and stronger grades of bleach at the stains until they disappeared. Well, not as if; she’s seen Homura do exactly that. It works, she supposes, but she thinks she’d almost prefer it if the whole place was filthy. At least that would seem human. But then, maybe this fits Homura better. Hell, maybe it’s the chemical fumes that are to blame for her frustratingly stoic, unmoving personality, and not the trauma she likes to pretend she doesn’t have. The act works on Mami, probably, who likes to think the best of people and their circumstances, who doesn’t like to pry into what isn’t her business, but Kyoko never learnt how to be polite like that.

Once the lock gives way with a click, she hauls her through the hallway, then into the uncomfortably cavernous main room, with the floating screens and the strange gearwork hanging suspended above. It’s meant to be like a clock, she remembers Homura told her once, but the pendulum’s long since rusted through, as if it hasn’t moved in years ~~(one hundred and thirty seven months)~~. She’s never bothered to look at the screens too closely, except perhaps to wonder how the hell Homura affords this place—that question had gotten her a stony look that told her she probably didn’t want to know. They’re displaying… fairy tales?

 _Den Lille Pige med Svovlstikkerne. Den Lille Havfrue. Snedronningen. Kejserens nye klæder. Den Grimme Ælling._ Her gaze lingers on the last one for a moment, and the image begins to fluctuate as if knows she’s watching— she sees momentary shocks of pink, a cat stretched out across a chair, and then everything is overshadowed, every inch of space on the screen swallowed by some strange, sketchy figure with too many twitching, writhing legs to count, arms outstretched as if making some desperate plea to the uncaring heavens above. It looks wrong somehow, as if just looking at it is making her eyes hurt. She turns away with a frown, and tugs Homura across the rest of the room to the door she’s pretty sure leads to her bathroom. As it is pulled open and slammed shut a moment later, the screen changes image one last time, for an audience of nobody. The half-masked face grins at the solid wood of the door for a moment, frozen in a silent rictus, before each panel fades to black one by one—the image of the little girl built from matchsticks the last one to turn off.

She drops Homura, still unresponsive, onto her bed, quirking a single eyebrow and smirking just a little at the sight of the unmade bed, the sheet only half on the mattress. She doesn’t know what she expected, but the pink pillows weren’t it. Sighing, she picks a chair ~~(five chairs in the room)~~ at random and slings herself across it ~~(only two are filled)~~ , head resting on one hand as she looks over at the other magical girl. To be entirely frank, she still has no absolutely no fucking idea why she’s so out of it. Some kind of breakdown, obviously, but she still refuses to believe that Homura Akemi would be the one to break first.

“Why exactly are you in my bedroom, Sakura Kyoko?”

She might’ve worried about it some more, but her thoughts are strangled in the cradle when she hears her voice—she’s speaking with the same cool, unaffected tone to her voice that she always uses, as if she hasn’t been catatonic for the past twenty minutes. Kyoko seriously considers punching her for the sheer temerity of it, acting as nothing has happened after what they’ve both just gone through—she probably would have, if Homura’s tone hadn’t turned soft and apologetic in the next sentence she spoke, sincere in a way she don’t think she’s ever heard her before.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have troubled you and Mami like that.”

And she’s confused for a moment, because she’s not sure if she even wants her to apologize or not. Eventually, she decides to accept it, though it’s with a strangely dissatisfied scowl on her face.

“Yeah, whatever. I know you didn’t exactly freeze up on purpose, Akemi. Not gonna get on your ass for it.”

A pause, her eyes narrowing.

“Well, maybe a bit. I’m not gonna pry or anything, but—”

“—You want to know why.”

Homura’s sat up now, the steel back in her eyes as she regards the redhead with an unfathomable expression. Unhappiness clouds her brow for a moment, before she tilts her head a little.

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

She bites back her retort that the both of them use magic to fight blank-faced ghosts at the behest of a furry space alien, because she knows a deflection when sees one, and despite what some people might expect of her, she doesn’t particularly want to force Homura to dredge up something she’s clearly uncomfortable talking about. So, she’s fully ready to drop it—but the other girl keeps speaking anyway, more to herself than to Kyoko.

“I just… wasn’t ready to see it happen for real.”

It’s certainly a strange thing to say, but Kyoko has long since accepted that Homura Akemi sometimes Says Things. Things she couldn’t possibly know, like Momo’s name, or what Yuma’s parents were doing to her—even something as simple as already knowing her favorite food when they met for the first time. Her and Mami have tried to figure it out before—Mami thought that she might have some kind of future sight magic at first, but after Oriko, they know that what Homura knows can’t compare to real precognition.

They’d thought about something to do with time, given the power she relies so much on, but Kyuubey had dashed that theory, assuring them both that something as ridiculous as time travel isn’t possible with the kind of energy a wish can generate— “an unfeasible investment, given the returns from wraith-hunting,” he’d said. The little rat’s businesslike mindset had always rubbed her the wrong way, but she remembers what Homura told her about her Incubator, who was apparently far cagier with all the important information. When it’s put like that, she definitely prefers Kyuubey’s blunt honesty.

So, in other words, they basically have no idea why Homura knows these things. It’s just one of her many little oddities. She’d be lying if she said the unexplained knowledge of her preferences and tastes wasn’t a little creepy, but it had it’s upsides—Homura was without a doubt the best at gifts out of all of them, and she’s introduced her to some snack or song she didn’t even know she liked more than once.

“—Like it was the first time, again.”

Sometimes though, like this, it seems like that knowledge is more of a burden to Homura than anything. She might be awake, her face realigned, but her body language is all wrong—her shoulders are bunched up tight in the way they get when she’s stressed, but she doesn’t want anyone else to know. She has one leg dangling over the side of her bed purely so she can tap her foot against the frame in an alternating rhythm, as if the tick-tock beat of her heel against something solid somehow reassures her—she’s only seen her do that once or twice before.

\--She doesn’t really know how she started noticing these things. Maybe it’s just a habit of hers— learning the tics of people she considered dangerous somehow, learning what might set them off, all the warning signs. She’d certainly thought Homura seemed like the dangerous type of magical girl when they first met, the type that will happily kill you for a chance to expand their own territory and keep their grief cube supply steady—and she was right. Homura was more ruthless than she’d been at her absolute lowest; she was just much more detached about it. She saw what she did to Oriko and Kirika, and she’s glad that Homura has never once considered being on any side but theirs.

For a little while, neither of them say anything else. The silence isn’t comfortable, but it’s not unbearable either—they’re just there, together, and maybe they’re better off for that. Kyoko can feel Homura’s eyes on her—she wonders if she’s seeing the same things in her. Finally, she decides to break it.

“…I’m not gonna pretend like I know what’s up with you, Akemi. I reckon you’d probably prefer it if I don’t, right? Still—”

She pauses for a second, frowning briefly. She wishes she could be less clumsy with her words, could tie up everything she wants to say neatly. She deliberates for just a moment longer, then decides to just wing it.

“I don’t need to understand to at least be here. Even if I don’t get it, and we’d both be happier if it stays that way, it’s better if you’re at least not suffering through it alone—and don’t pretend like you wouldn’t if I let you.”  
  


Her tone slid a little further towards aggressiveness than she meant it to at the end, but she thinks she got the message through well enough. She knows her well enough to know how quickly she’ll retreat into her own little shell if she lets her. Homura’s expression wavers for just a second, before a small smile crosses her face. It throws her off for a second; she expected the same neutral expression whether she denied it or not.

“…It really is better if you didn’t know. I’m certainly not going to tell you about it all… but, it’s not like you’re going to go away even if I tell you to, is it, Kyoko Sakura?”

\----

“You’re goddamn right I wouldn’t.”

She nods with a smile that’s full of teeth, and Homura can’t help but feel guilty that she ever got dragged into the tragedy she constructed all for herself around the figure she still longs for even now. Kyoko wasn’t involved in that first timeline—she doesn’t even think she showed up to fight Walpurgisnacht. If she’d never made her wish, Kyoko’s life would’ve been spared it all. She might’ve felt something for the loss of the senpai she’d grown distant from, maybe, but she’d at least be free to live out the short life of a magical girl in a peace that Homura had denied her. She can’t even remember how she first got involved—it’s been too long (she knows exactly how long it’s been, down to the millisecond, but she bites down the knowledge before it forces her to think too much about it.)

She’s never particularly friendly with Homura, not usually, gravitating to Mami or Sayaka without fail (except for one inexplicable, aberrant timeline, where every attempt to even get near Madoka was met with a sharp spear and a sharper tongue.) she supposes her offering up so much is proof that they really are free of the cycle—the one that she built, at least.

She still doesn’t quite know how to feel about the knowledge that Sayaka is already gone, her fate so similar even when it was no longer squarely in her hands. She feels responsible for her death, responsible for the lives of the others, in a way she suspects will never leave her. It’s silly, she knows—the only proof that she caused all this is in her own memories, stubbornly refusing to change in the face of a universe written anew. She can only hope that Sayaka has her place in the Law of Cycles now—she suspects Madoka will give her best friend special treatment. After all, the ribbon in her hair is proof that she’s a sentimental sort of goddess.

Enough. Her mind Is wandering, whilst her body is still right here, and so is Kyoko, draped across the chair as if she owns it. She casts her eyes over her one more time, then speaks carefully.

“…If you really want to, then you can. Though, I won’t make you do anything more than just being around.”

\--and that will be enough, is what she doesn’t say. She thinks Kyoko understands anyway. She’s always perceptive like that, sharp in a way that not even Homura can manage.

“See? You can listen to people who know what’s best for you! It’s a goddamn miracle. –Hey, though, I just realized. Am I gonna have to sleep in the main room? I hate the smell, and the screens playing freaky shit isn’t exactly gonna help me get a good night’s rest.”

Homura knew that Kyoko staying with her would probably be part of accepting her presence in her life, but she raises her eyebrow all the same. That draws a cackle from Kyoko, matched only by her own sigh.

“…We’ll figure something out.”

Another laugh, as the redhead stands up and offers her a hand.

“See, you’re adapting already! Now, c’mon. We can’t sit in your bedroom talking about feelings all day. We’ll grab some food and then go make sure Mami’s okay.”

Homura allows herself to be pulled to her feet, indulging herself with a small smile. She doesn’t know if this is a good idea, and she’s not used to the uncertainty of not knowing how something is going to go— but there’s no time like the present to get used to it, she supposes.


End file.
